


la petite mort

by hamiltrashed



Series: Sunrise/Sunset [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Horny Rick, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:38:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4738064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick has a moment alone at sunrise in the guard tower to enjoy himself (aka 'the one where Rick guards nothing but his dick while he fantasises heavily about Daryl').</p>
            </blockquote>





	la petite mort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [no_path_untaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_path_untaken/gifts).



> Beta'd by the wonderful Michelle_A_Emerlind and gifted to my flawless wifey, no_path_untaken because friends don't let friends go without masturbation fic. :D

Rick thinks that watching the sun rise has always been one of the simplest pleasures the world has to offer, only now, it’s infinitely more beautiful. When you don’t know from one day to the next whether you’ll see the next sunrise, when the world is dark enough that the night seems to hate giving way to the light... the sun is like a beacon of hope, small but enough to make it through another day.

Rick is lying on his back on the floor of the guard tower, in the small nest of blankets Daryl left behind last night when he was on watch. Daryl didn’t say Rick could take over his space, but he also didn’t say he _couldn’t_ , so Rick is curling up in cotton and tugging a wool blanket over him to block out the early morning chill. He’s not so much up here keeping watch as he is trying to take a moment out of the day before the shit kicks in to actually relish the fact that he’s still alive. It’s quiet for miles. For the moment, everyone and everything is safe.

Rick turns his head toward the east, watches the blaze of orange slowly making its way over the horizon. His cheek brushes the blankets beneath him, and when it does, he catches a whiff of something that is unmistakably Daryl. It smells like a hundred different things, like a mechanic and a hunter and something distinct that belongs only to Daryl. Something musky, earthy and woodsy and... _nice_.

Rick exhales slowly, huddles down and presses his face against the blanket more, breathing Daryl in deep like the smell of him is oxygen itself. _Stop_ , he tells himself. ... _Don’t you think this is a little weird_? But something primal is already blossoming way deep down in his belly and spreading until his body is taut with tension, until he can feel his cock starting to stiffen in his jeans. 

Rick bites his lip, shuts his eyes tight. It’s not the first time this has happened, thinking about those eyes and those hands and the burning, intense looks Daryl seems to save for him and no one else. But he’s ignored it every time, waited until it’s gone away because it felt... not wrong, but _new_ , something he hasn’t been prepared to deal with and certainly not under the watchful eye of the members of his extensive family. Someone’s always looking at him, judging the level of his sanity from day to day. Visibly lusting after Daryl would do him no favours.

But here, alone... well, Rick really can’t help himself.

His hands go beneath the blanket, opening his jeans quickly, the release of pressure on his cock making him only feel more needy. He lifts his hips, slides them and a pair of thin, half threadbare boxers down around his thighs. The scratchy wool blanket rubs over his bare cock, and Rick shivers, lets go of a moan he can’t hold back. He thrusts against his palm, then grabs tight and strokes slow, back arching just a little. It’s been a while since he’s done this, been a while since he’s had time or even felt like it, and just the touch of his own hand is setting off tiny explosions in him, prickling tingles of pleasure everywhere.

He lets go only long enough to spit into his palm, then goes back to it, just slick enough now to get the right amount of friction, for him to imagine Daryl’s mouth on him. He shudders at the thought but he lets it play out, imagines curling his hands into Daryl’s hair while Daryl goes down on him. His thumb swiping roughly across the slit becomes Daryl’s tongue, the hand he drops down to play with his balls becomes Daryl’s hand. He imagines stunning blue eyes looking up at him, his cock halfway down Daryl’s throat, and makes a quiet gasping sound, face still turned against the blankets.

Rick already wants to come; he’s high now on the rush of ecstasy sweeping through him at every tug of his hand. And as much as he’d like to lie there all day, touching and teasing himself until he can’t take it, he knows someone will eventually come looking for him.

Rick groans and rolls onto his stomach, feels the muscles there clench at the pressure, mouth dropping open at the rough drag of one of Daryl’s blankets against his cock. This one’s softer than the wool that now rests all the way down his back and ass, but every time his hips move, he imagines that one is Daryl’s nails raking along him. He hisses out a breath, a quiet moan of _yes_ , and starts moving, thrusting. He hasn’t done this since he was a teenager, when he used to rock his hips against the bed in the mornings before school, leave the sheets damp and his heart racing in his chest with orgasm.

It’s different now, though, because the desperation is focused on Daryl, on fantasising about him. Rick’s hips move by themselves, keep going even when he’s still trying to drag it out, make it last. He knows it’s not going to, not when he’s picturing Daryl behind him, above him, thrusting between his ass cheeks, against the small of his back. He lets out a rough cry, head falling forward so his forehead rests against his arms, curled in front of him, just barely holding him up. He buries his face against the blankets, the smell of Daryl becoming a drug, making him dizzy as he fucks against the cotton.

He’s warm now, every bit of him _hot_ , and he reaches one hand behind him to pull the blanket covering him away. His whole body shudders with the sudden rush of cold air against his ass and balls, and he makes an absolutely wrecked sound, grinding his hips harder against the bedding. He tries to imagine how Daryl would fuck him. If he’d start slow and then get aggressive, or go hard the whole way through. Rick is loath to pick which he’d prefer; the idea of the slow buildup teases something in him that needs Daryl like he needs to breathe. But there’s another, louder, animalistic thing that wants it like this, face against the floor but his ass in the air, his own hands spreading himself open for Daryl, shamelessly begging for it.

The idea is arousing beyond anything, makes Rick suck one finger into his mouth before reaching back behind him to press it against his twitching hole, to push inside, and holy _fuck_ , that’s good. In his mind, it’s Daryl pushing into him hard and fast, grabbing Rick’s arms and holding them behind his back while he fucks him so Rick can’t touch himself. 

_Fuckin’ dirty thing_ , Daryl would tell him, and Rick would agree, would _plead_ for it, just like he wants to now. He presses another finger inside, eyes rolling back at the feeling. It’s been a long time since this, too, and the feeling of being filled-but-not-quite-full is intense, fingers seeking out that one spot that will make him lose it. It’s hard like this, only makes him wish all the more that it was Daryl. The thought makes his hips stutter; his movements go shaky and Rick can feel the wet spot forming beneath him, precome all over Daryl’s things. It’s so fucking _filthy_ that he’s doing this, but he can’t stop now, wouldn’t even if he could. 

Daryl would release his arms eventually; Rick would go right for his cock but Daryl would slap his hand away. _Don’t you dare_ , he’d say, let him go untouched until he felt like offering a little relief. He’d touch only when he wanted to, not before, and Rick would love it, _love_ it if for just a moment, Daryl’s wants and needs were law. He’d love to be led instead of leading, would love to be subject to someone else’s whims for a change. 

Rick’s hips roll downward, forward, and he whispers a hoarse, “ _Fuck me_ ,” as if Daryl’s really there to hear him. His fingers finally brush over his prostate and his hips still, just for a second, then slam forward again, a strangled sound he had no idea he could make coming from somewhere down in his throat. His legs and arms shake, his toes curl hard in his boots, and he’s close now, so close. 

Rick’s mind is losing hold of the image of Daryl, going blank as his focus shifts only to the feeling of impending orgasm, building up in him like the moment just before fireworks go off. He pulls his fingers free of himself, both hands going in front of him to claw at the blankets. In his desperation, he pulls one aside, and his eyes go wide. Daryl’s poncho is making up one of the layers of his little nest, and oh god, it’s _wrong_ , but he can’t resist. He’s too far gone now to stop and think about it logically; all he can think about is that he _wants_ to do it, he _has_ to…

He stops moving long enough to pull the poncho free from between two other layers. He buries his face against it, taking in Daryl's intoxicating scent so hard that stars burst behind his eyelids, then shoves it underneath him. Somehow, it’s better than before, maybe because it’s more intimate to do this, more like getting off on Daryl _himself_ , like rubbing against his skin. And it feels so fucking dirty, but so, so good. Rick grabs hold of another image of Daryl, still fucking into him, leaning over him and telling him to _come, c’mon Rick, know you wanna come for me_ …

Rick makes a sound that can only be described as a sob, and comes right then, hips pressed hard against Daryl’s poncho, spine arched upward away from the floor, warmth flooding beneath him. He bites his lip, tries to be quieter, as if anyone will hear him from inside the prison. He shudders through every second of his release, then rolls over to the other side of the pile of blankets, onto his back. His muscles loosen and ease up, but his breathing is hard still, heavy and rasping.

He lies still, his sunrise forgotten, but it doesn’t matter. _This_ feels like a sunrise, lush and rich and just _good_. He lies there for a long few minutes before he uses a corner of a blanket to clean himself off, lifting his body, still blissed out and pliant, to tug his boxers and jeans back up. He’s just sitting up, zipping his zipper when he realises exactly what he’s done, and looks down at the mess beside him. _His_ mess.

“Oh, _shit_ …” he whispers. His mind begins working overtime, trying to think of exactly how he’s going to explain to Daryl the fact that there’s come all over his poncho, the scent of sex all over his blankets. The truth is probably unacceptable in this instance, and most certainly will not set him free. And just this once, Rick thinks it might be okay if someone looks at him and thinks he’s crazy. Because frankly, the insanity defence is the only thing that might even come close to getting him off -- if he hadn’t already done that. Still, there isn't a cell in his body that could've helped it, not when Daryl is in his head, not just an occasional thought but the whole damn train of them running on exactly one track. And Daryl _might_ just have to accept that Rick can't ever hope to put the brakes on.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the ever-useful French phrase meaning "the little death," a euphemism for orgasm which I thought was appropriate for this.


End file.
